Of the Gold Clad Behinds of Patricians
by Linxcat
Summary: Moist had never addressed a crowd this big before. He'd never been in a position of such authority without the oddly reassuring notion that if he made a total prat of himself and messed everything up, Vetinari would just hang him. Again.


_Relax_, said the casual voice, _You've done this before._

The voice was a voice of apparent reason, a voice of calm and consolation, it was what the brain instinctively released when the body was under stress.

It was also very, very wrong.

Moist had never addressed a crowd this big before. He'd never addressed a crowd this big as _Acting Patrician_ before. He'd never been in a position of such authority without the oddly reassuring notion that if he made a total prat of himself and messed everything up, Vetinari would just hang him again.

It was all _his_ fault. Havelock Vetinari wasn't supposed to die, the bastard! He was one of those people that just couldn't die, somehow the world just wasn't right without him there. It had been nearly a week since the funeral, and Adora had been forced to practically haul him out of bed every day since, such was his reluctance to take the place he had been appointed, in some unspoken agreement that the whole city was somehow privy to.

Moist took a deep breath, adjusted his hat, and surveyed the audience. To say that most of Ankh-Morpork had shown up wouldn't have been an exaggeration; about half of them were there to listen to him, and the other half to sell things to the half listening. He could see Commander Vimes' officers there in the middle of the throng, ready to keep the peace should Moist say something that provoked rioting or some such sudden enthusiasm. Vimes himself was sat with the other important members of the city, on one of the platforms next to Moist's podium. Moist knew this without turning around, as he could feel the older man's stare burying itself in his back. Vimes was a Duke, so it was aristocrial duty to be present for these things. The great seat was just a bonus.

He supposed that he was meant to take comfort from the idea of having someone with the intimidating presence that Commander Vimes carried technically on his side. But that was the problem – the technicalities. As Adora had helpfully pointed out, in an attempt to get him out of bed that morning, Vimes was _technically _no longer allowed to boot him up his gold clad behind, since he was Patrician now and the head of the Watch didn't do that sort of thing if he wanted to stay head, not beheaded. Unfortunately, however, Vimes was popular and very good at his job. And Moist had a feeling that his new status wouldn't stop the older man from aiming a kick in that direction when he felt that the city was in need of a different direction.

Moist glanced over his shoulder and – yes, there was Vimes, and Lady Sybil, and...oh, yes, their son too. He caught the man's eye and held his chin up a little, indicating he was not going to be intimidated. Vimes just raised his eyebrows and folded his arms.

Moist swallowed and moved his gaze quickly on. Gods, William De Worde. Quite possibly worse, but at least the man wasn't trying to gut him with his glare; De Worde was accompanied by Sacharissa, and the husband-wife duo were clutching notebooks and hissing frantically with their heads together. De Worde seemed to sense Moist's gaze on him and looked up, frowning and nodding in a businesslike manner. Moist nodded quickly back and moved his gaze away from the pillars of the community, back to the rabble.

A glass of water is a simple thing, and so easily taken for granted. Moist was a master of speeches and, for several days afterwards, he cursed himself for not remembering the all-important glass of water before speaking. While it sometimes meant cutting particularly long talks short to dash to the bathroom, it stopped silly things like embarrassing coughs, or the clearing of a throat being mistaken for the signal to quieten down when, really, the speaker wasn't anywhere near ready to being speaking.

Moist cleared his throat and, all at once, the room was silent.

_Oh bugger..._

So, uh, maybe he hadn't _really_ thought out what he was going to say yet. Adora hadn't even raised an eyebrow when he'd told her that morning that he had no idea what he would be addressing the whole of Ankh-Morpork about. Something always turned up; he'd been hoping until right that moment that the particular something due for today would be Drumknott running in in his usual helpful manner at the last minute and declaring that Vetinari was, in fact, alive and well.

Moist scanned the fringe of the crowd for signs of the clerk, or any sign at all that could possibly relieve him of this daunting task, such as a handily-timed non-fatal assassination or maybe a tidal wave. No such luck, he realised glumly. Should have hung up a bigger ladle...

He opened and closed his mouth a few times. His motormouth had decided to leave for the day, apparently, and now he was stuck with one belonging to a fish. Where were his magical words when he needed them? Why had his thread of ad-libbed conversation decided to desert him now?

More importantly, why the hell had Vetinari picked _him_ as a successor? There were many more experienced, more politically correct and more sensible candidates, most of which were sitting to his left and right on raised podiums, and were probably beginning to snigger around about now. He was a crook, he was a sham, he was a laughing stock and would be dead within the week. Who'd ever heard of a golden patrician, anyway? It could never work.

_Oh gods, oh bloody hell, oh-_

"Daddy!"

The whole Disc froze for a few seconds as Moist von Lipwig, Ankh-Morpork's latest patrician, slowly looked down at his feet. There sat Marie, two years old and already part of the city's politics as she tugged on her father's trouser leg and raised her arms to be picked up.

And in that split second, Moist understood. It was so insane, so blatantly stupid, that it would work. The patrician had to be someone who could understand and manipulate people and was used to mountains of paperwork, that much was sensible. But he'd always sought refuge in audacity, and _that_ was why it worked, that was why Vetinari had picked him! No matter that he was a flourishing genius under pressure and could command the attention of thousands with the oldest tricks in the book, and that people liked him, although all those did help.

What mattered was the fact that succeeding a man like Vetinari was impossible. There was no one that could ever fill his shoes. And Moist was a man who petitioned the gods and got exactly what he asked for, down to the penny, who built the Post Office up from a wreck, who convinced the biggest city on the Disc that gold was worth less than potatoes. Moist dealt primarily with the impossible, turning it into, if not the probable, then at least the highly entertaining. As long as people believed he could do it, he _could_ do it, and no other man would do.

And, why ever the hell _not_ have a golden patrician? Personally, he thought it was rather snappy.

"Hello you," Moist bent down and plucked his daughter from the stage, then turned back to the crowd, grinning, "Say something to the nice people, Marie."

The little girl looked around and, for the first time, seemed to notice the vast amount of people before her. For a moment her expression was just as perplexed as those on the faces of the people watching, then she ducked her head down and gave the audience a shy wave.

And then the Disc restarted with a smattering of relieved laughter and more than a few returned waves, and Moist was soaring once again, the golden warmth flooding up through his feet and legs and returning the old confidence.

He looked behind him and saw Adora Belle standing in the doorway that lead to the stairs behind the raised stage , her arms folded and a smirk of - was that triumph? - all over her face. Hiding behind her skirts were John and Robert, whose intrigued expressions turned to delight as he beckoned them both over.

Muttering rose from the crowd like a flock of disturbed birds, and this time Moist meant it when he cleared his throat loudly for silence. He sat down at the front of the stage, Marie on his lap and the two boys sat either side of him, legs swinging enthusiastically over the edge.

"You guys can take a seat, if you like – its just, well, these two," Moist gestured to John and Robert with a roll of the eyes, "Are always fighting, and my wife will kill me if tomorrow's front page has a photograph of them trying to poke each others' eyes out!"

This raised a loud laugh from the rabble, and another louder burst of laughter at Robert's indignant, "No we don't!" and his older brother's response that, "He always starts it anyway!"

"Take after their father!" came a shout, and Moist suspected it was Sacharissa. He grinned and waited for the subsequent chaos to calm down, before beginning.

"Look," he began. It was a good beginning, as beginnings went. "I'm here because Vetinari, may the gods keep his soul eternally entertained, nominated me to keep the city running in its bizarre way after he...moved on. I never asked or expected him too, I don't particularly want to – I would much rather sit at home every day and read Mr De Worde's delightful newspaper – but someone has to do it. Although I must admit, I am glad the city is in my hands, as it means I may finally have a chance to remove the permanent boot print on my trousers, courtesy of the lovely Duke Vimes over there, thanking you kindly, Commander."

The swell of laughter hardly had a chance to die down before Moist ploughed hastily on, "I'm not going to promise better employment and lower taxes because, quite frankly, I am in charge of the tax service and I think it's going pretty well. As for better employment, well, any aspiring decorators and interior designers out there are welcome to come and see me after this, as, you have probably gathered, my taste in colour is a little different to our previous illustrious leader's, but I'm afraid you'll have to consult the _Times _if you're looking for anything else. Change is inevitable, of course, except perhaps if you sit outside my office for a few hours and whine really loudly. And that will only work until I find the scorpion pit."

The burst of laughter this time was slightly more nervous. Moist chose this moment to pull a serious face and steer the speech in an appropriate direction, "I'm going to keep the city running how it currently is, because that seems to work rather well. If you have any suggestions of how you'd rather it be run, let one of my brilliant clerks know – they're the intimidating-looking ones in black – and they'll be sure to pass any good ideas on to me. I'm still officially Acting Patrician, but if the politicians can't find another poor soul before the end of the week, you're all invited to the big ceremony two weeks tomorrow. There will be, of course, free food and an open bar, which is enough incentive for most of you, I imagine! It's certainly the only reason _I'm_ going..."

During the roar of appreciation that followed, Moist von Lipwig stood, his daughter still in his arms and his two sons hiding behind his legs, and beamed at _his_ people.

"I think that's as good a note to end on as any! And now, if you'd all like to head out through the doors; they're very easy to find as there is a member of the City Watch helpfully standing right in the middle of each one. Thank you very much Ankh-Morpork, and I hope to see you all in a fortnight!"

The wave of applause almost knocked him off his feet as he left the stage with a wave, meeting his wife at the top of the stairs and giving her a big kiss.

Adora's expression barely changed as she pulled back, taking Marie from his arms and pointing to boys over to where Peggy was waiting.

"I should make you my head of PR." He said, and grinned.

"I don't know what you're talking about." She said, and smirked. Just a little bit.

"I love you." Moist kissed her again, then kissed her on the top of her head, still full of the golden feeling of flying on impossibilities.

His wife nodded, "I know." She took out a bar of dark chocolate from somewhere in her dress and took a bite, then broke off a little for Marie, and, at his insistence, broke off some for Robert too, who quickly remembered that he actually didn't like it.

"Lipwig." it was the gruff voice of Commander Vimes, who was stood at the end of the corridor. Moist waited until Adora, Peggy and the children had left before approaching him.

"Commander Vimes; I trust you are well?"

Vimes paused, took a long draw from his cigar, then fixed Moist with a look that carried a surprising amount of respect, "I just came to say...good job out there today. No one wants to succeed someone like Vetinari, but I believe that you are, unfortunately, just the right man to attempt it."

Moist was stunned for a few seconds, but plumped with "thank you" as a good response. Vimes nodded, then looked a little embarassed.

"And...Sybil says you are invited to dinner this Octeday, and to bring your children, as Sam and John got on so well last time." The sentence had an air of the rehearsed to it, but Moist smiled benevolently and decided not to mention it.

"Thank you, Commander."

As Vimes made his way back to his family, Moist waited in the hidden doorway to the hall and watched the people of the city trudge past. The golden glow began to subside and memories of his impromptu speech came back to him.

_Oh gods_, he'd mentioned the scorpion pit! He'd promised himself he wouldn't, _wouldn't_ mention the scorpion pit...! His bloody mouth, always running off in the wrong direction...

And as the sun broke through the clouds, shining through the nearest doorway and illuminating the thousands of muddy footprints left on the marble floor, Moist looked on the bright side: at least Vimes hadn't kicked him...


End file.
